The Home Place: A Novel Page 20

  Brittany’s left hand starts to move out in a petting gesture, making Alma wonder if Burro is in the car with them, but just as suddenly Brittany withdraws the hand, as if she’s remembered that this is a thing she no longer does. Instead she leans forward, watching for the evening star, taking in the shades of darkness on the land. “But this is nice, isn’t it? Going back to the home place?” The road is pitch-black before the headlights in the dark before moonrise. The home place will have dropped to forty-five degrees, where Alma set the thermostat.

  “Yes, babe. It’s nice going back. But you wouldn’t want to leave Billings and start all over out here, would you?” Alma attempts. “A new school, all that? Wouldn’t it be nicer where your friends are? Your family?”

  Brittany has one hand on the window ledge, peering out at the night as if there’s something obscure and important to see there. “I went to school in Hardin when we lived here. I think my friend Mia is still there. And I like playing with Mae. She’s nice.”

  “She’s very nice.” Alma fiddles with the instrument panel, trying and failing to make AM radio come in. “Brittany, honey, you never did tell me—what did you do that night after you talked to Walt and Pete?”

  “I just waited for a long time. I watched out the front window and once I thought I saw a car coming up the street, but it didn’t come as far as the house. The window was all fogged up and I couldn’t see very well. I guess I fell asleep. I should have woke somebody up.” Brittany’s voice gets smaller and smaller before disappearing altogether. Alma steals a look at her and waits a moment before speaking again.

  “What about Uncle Pete?” Alma offers a change of subject. “Wouldn’t you miss him out here? And Great-Grandma, and Walt and Helen? And all your cousins in town.” There’s a raft of acknowledged and unacknowledged cousins, this and that twice removed, faces so like her own or some cherished ancestral photograph that to see them always brings a little chill, like someone walking over her grave. The living are the dead, and the dead aren’t gone. Alma will eventually hear about everyone she hasn’t connected with on this trip. One doesn’t neglect the family with impunity. There used to be family reunions at the home place, daylong events with music and hayrides. After Mike and Anne died, not to mention the falling-out with Walt, Al and Maddie seemed to lose all heart for it. Is all that gone forever, or just waiting to live again?

  “You told me that time that I could come live with you if I ever needed to.” Brittany’s lower lip is starting to project. This is true. At one point last year, after Brittany fought with Vicky over a school field trip, Alma tried to calm the waters by saying that Brittany could come to Seattle to stay for a little while if she needed to. The remark was meant to drive Brittany back to the bargaining table with Vicky. There seemed little risk that she would take the offer. But Vicky saw it as Alma’s attempt to come between her and Brittany, steal her daughter even. As Vicky tended to do, she went for the jugular.

  “Just because you can’t find a man who’s willing to give you kids—you probably can’t even have kids, you’re so tight and dried up—you think you can come out here and take mine! Well it ain’t gonna happen, sister!” Vicky hurled the words at her before hanging up over the shrill sound of another wedge springing into place between them.

  Of all of Alma’s words that have come back to haunt her, these are some of the most ironic. A thoughtless phrase that she would have taken back mere hours after pronouncing it, and now a year later Brittany is throwing it back at her. This should teach her not to get involved in other people’s arguments, she thinks, then remembers that interfering in other people’s disputes is her chosen profession.

  “I did say that, didn’t I? You know you’re always welcome at my house, but we also need to think about what’s best for you.” Alma pulls up behind the house. “I’d hardly be able to spend any time with you in Seattle. I work really long hours. But how about this: I’ll visit you more often. You can come out for holidays. We can go on vacations together, things like that. And you’ll still have your friends and family here. You’ll be fine.” She wants to fill up the yawning need behind Brittany’s request with promises and reassurances, but nothing she can say is anything like enough. As Alma’s mind thumbs frantically for options, there are too few functioning family members left on her list. Her mind drifts toward Pete and dredges up a call many months ago, maybe more than a year now.

  “It’s still one day at a time, Alma,” he told her. “Sometimes Shep’s like a big bungee cord holding me on the wagon. Everything’s this delicate balance.”

  “But you’re doing so well,” she’d protested. “All that’s behind you.”

  “No,” Pete insisted. “It’s with me every day. I look it in the eye every goddamn day.”

  A little electric fear traverses Alma’s chest as she looks over at Brittany, who has taken off her mittens to play with the air vents, the door locks, the sound system controls. Alma wants to stop those nervous fingers before they break something. She clicks off the headlights but lets the car idle, thinking that at least she’s won the argument for now, and reaches for her purse in the backseat. When she looks over again, Brittany is smothering sobs in her overlong dirty coat sleeves.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Alma cries and grabs her arm. “It’s not that bad. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

  “I want my mama,” Brittany sobs. “I promise to be good.” Alma reaches over to hold her small niece and stroke her head, as much for her own comfort as for Brittany’s. It is truly dark now, high country dark, with only the stealth illumination of glowing dash lights.

  Alma fixates on what she would say to Vicky if she were here in the car with them right now. I knew how hard it was for you, she wants to tell her sister. Maybe didn’t know exactly what you were feeling, but I knew you were drowning too. I just couldn’t help you because I could only save myself. I selfishly saved myself. I’m so sorry.

  It’s too late for Vicky, but as Alma’s tears dry, the future seems suddenly like the open plains: empty, dark as a stage that lies waiting for the opening curtain, replete with possibility. At this moment, Alma and Brittany can choose paths that would not have been available to them a week ago.

  Alma helps Brittany dry her face. “It’ll be okay, honey. Whatever happens, I’ll always be there for you. I will always take care of you.” Alma finds herself saying more words she hadn’t intended to say but now understands to be necessary. “Listen to me. I’ll stay with you—I don’t know where yet, but somewhere. I’ll make things right, whatever it takes.” These are the words she feared. They are true. They will change things.

  Brittany’s expression responds to the new sincerity in Alma’s voice. She calms, brushes her hair out of her face, and looks up at Alma by the light of the stereo with eyes made transparent again by faith. “Okay,” she says. “I’m all right now.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WEDNESDAY, 7 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME

  Alma wakes up stiff and cranky in the same bed as Brittany, who kept her up half the night thrashing and now sleeps with limp abandon. She leaves a note for Brittany and drives over to Ed and Jayne’s to use the phone. The first message on her voice mail: Jean-Marc will be on the first flight this morning, coming in for the funeral. Alma presses her lips together to stifle a sigh. He will not take well to conditions at the home place, but there’s nothing she can do. Her first call is to Amanda, who is perfectly alert at this early hour and talking fast.

  “Thank God. Alma, it happened last night. I went out for dinner, and when I came back past the building I thought I saw a light on in your office, so I came up. Duncan and Louis got hold of a key to your office. They were loading files on a cart and they took your hard drive. I’m sure they’ve had it hacked by now. They have everything, all your notes and contacts. They’re meeting the client today—I got their calendars off the network drive. Alma, I’m so so sorry, I don’t know what to say. I tried to call you last night but you weren’t picking up. Where have you been?
Is everything okay?”

  “No,” Alma says, “everything is not okay. At this point . . . maybe I’m glad to have one less thing to worry about.” She plants her forehead with a thump on the ivy-patterned wallpaper. Behind her at the stove, Jayne glances up in concern.

  “Are you still coming back on Friday? I don’t know if it will make any difference now.”

  “I think so. Everything’s a mess here too. Are you going to be okay?”

  Amanda’s breathing sounds on the verge of hyperventilation. “Yes. I just need to breathe. I hardly slept last night. I’m just going to keep doing what I do.”

  “When I get back we can talk about what happens now. Over martinis.”

  “You’re on.”

  When Amanda hangs up, Alma shuts her eyes and presses her fingers against them, a physical channel change. She can’t deal with Seattle now. She opens her eyes and considers calling Detective Curtis and asking about the fetal paternity test.

  “Ed and I are planning on coming in for the funeral too, if you don’t mind.” Jayne startles Alma with the quiet words and a hand on her shoulder. “We’re all so very sorry.”

  Alma turns around to look into the lined, cautious face watching hers. Jayne’s hair is completely silver now, nothing like the blond bob she used to maintain so carefully. Something—maybe Ed’s cancer—has sped up her aging. The grace of Jayne’s gesture floods through Alma as Chance enters the kitchen through the back door and grunts a good morning on the way to the coffeemaker.

  “I’d like that.” Alma’s attempt to smile doesn’t quite come off. Jayne reaches out and hugs her—really hugs her, like she used to before Alma broke her son’s heart—then pulls away with the same air of caution she’s had since Alma came back. The hug is a moment of weakness for Jayne, but its sweet generosity rests on Alma like a mantle, giving warmth. Chance is blowing on his coffee and watching them.

  “We wanted to invite you both to supper if you’re coming back out here tonight,” he says, with a glance at Jayne that says she’s already approved.

  Jayne nods. “Yes, we talked last night and we don’t want you having to go home to a dark house after the funeral. You just come here and we’ll make sure you get a hot meal,” she says with raised eyebrows and lowered chin, asking Alma to agree.

  There is no refusing this invitation. Besides, the alternative would be leftover funeral casserole or fast food off the interstate. Dinner at the Murphys’ will be good for Brittany, that’s the important thing. Alma nods. “Thank you, that would be very nice. My—um—” She’s trying to say “my boyfriend,” but the words sound ridiculous in her head. Chance and Jayne wait for her to stop stammering. “Jean-Marc is flying in. He’ll be coming back with us tonight.”

  Jayne beams at this. “Your boyfriend?” she enthuses. “Oh yes, bring him too!” Chance sets down his half-full cup and stalks back outside.

  Alma thanks Jayne and moves toward the front door. Brittany is ready and waiting when Alma swings by the home place to pick her up. “First stop is the airport,” Alma tells her. “You remember Jean-Marc. He bought you that pretty umbrella last time you visited.”

  “Why does he have to be here?” Brittany whines at the ceiling upholstery. “He doesn’t like it here.”

  “How do you know that? He’s never been here. Besides, he’s here for me, and for the family,” Alma answers without taking her eyes off the road. “Be nice.” She knows that Brittany is remembering what Alma told her about why she doesn’t visit Montana more—Jean-Marc doesn’t want to, and they have so little vacation time together. It seemed like a harmless admission at the time—true, even—but it will only come between Brittany and Jean-Marc now.

  Alma glances over to see that Brittany has set her jaw in exactly the expression Maddie uses when she’s made up her mind. Terrebonne women, she sighs to herself, just before a thud from the rear sends the car skidding full speed across both lanes of the county highway. Alma steers hard across the rumble strip, trying to straighten out before they head into the borrow pit. In her peripheral vision a white pickup speeds by. All she can do is focus on bringing them safely to a stop as the car fishtails and skids across the asphalt.

  They shudder to a halt, half off the pavement. The highway is empty, the pickup already gone over the next rise. Alma gets out to check the damage. There are some scratches on the back bumper, but nothing that matches the terror she felt as the car slid out of control. Alma rubs her neck and takes her time walking back to the driver’s seat, where Brittany leans toward her anxiously.

  “Is the car okay?” she asks.

  “It’s fine. Are you okay?” Alma puts a hand on Brittany’s arm and examines her face.

  “It just scared me, that’s all.”

  “Probably just some drunk.” Alma shakes her head at the words even as she says them. Eight A.M. isn’t a common time for drunk driving, but Brittany is prepared to believe just about anything about adults these days.

  At the airport, Jean-Marc is settled in a chair near the baggage carousels, checking e-mail. He stands to embrace Alma. His hugs are real and warm, never awkward. There’s a faint scent of cologne on him, not from actual cologne, but from an expensive body wash that Alma knows he likes and now buys for him in bulk when it shows up at Costco on discount. His face is a little red from the heat of the terminal and his wool topcoat, but he’s smiling. He offers a firm handshake to Brittany, who shakes once and pulls her hand away.

  “About where we’re staying,” Alma begins, looking for words that will prepare but not alarm. “It’s a little rustic.”

  Jean-Marc raises a smooth eyebrow. “Ski cabin rustic or trailer park rustic?” he inquires.

  “Homestead rustic,” Alma says. “Outhouse. No cell service. No Internet.”

  Jean-Marc’s face shifts into a thoughtful moue. “This is your childhood home?”

  “My grandparents’ home, yes.” Alma watches him, awaiting a verdict. Jean-Marc is the sort of man who ponders a little, then decides for good. If the home place is unacceptable in his eyes, there will be no convincing him otherwise.

  “I’m sure we’ll manage.” He shrugs and picks up his bag. Alma’s shoulders drop in relief. They file out to the car and descend from the rims for a cup of Pete’s strong coffee. Pete and Jean-Marc surprise her by falling into an easy conversation about international coffee markets, as if they’re old friends. Something about Jean-Marc’s impeccable topcoat, silk scarf, and shiny shoes has won Pete’s confidence. She can see it as Pete smiles past Jean-Marc at her. At least one of my sisters will be taken care of, she can almost hear him thinking as he claps Jean-Marc on the shoulder. Her brother’s satisfaction twists in her as she pulls at the sleeves of her sweater. She has never wanted to be taken care of. Let him worry about Brittany. The successful visit with Pete is followed by a long lunch of donated casseroles and pointed questions about Brittany and the home place at Maddie’s. Alma hedges and Jean-Marc entertains with stories of Gatsby-esque parties in Singapore. At last, but still before Alma feels ready, it’s time to go to Vicky’s funeral.

  The 1950s-era church is at the center of the downtown, on the foundations of the older church it replaced. Alma remembers attending with her parents, who bookended the family in one of the forward pews, a solid, united front. She drew on the walls in the nursery, and Pete once threw a Tinkertoy straight through a plate-glass window into the alley. As a child, Alma pictured prayers rising like smoke signals from the church’s chimney into the unspoiled sky. For several years, she believed their white-haired pastor to be God.

  When Alma walks into the church with Maddie, Jean-Marc, and Brittany, she finds Pete and Shep already inside, standing a little apart from the rest of the crowd. The Murphys come in soon after and greet them one by one. Chance asks after business at the Itching Post and makes small talk about the school board with Shep. Glancing at Chance’s broad, flanneled back, Alma imagines him chatting with gallery clientele in Denver, New York, anywhere. He seems to have absorb
ed Pete and Shep’s relationship automatically and approvingly, his cowboy hat dangling from his fingertips as he nods at the taller man. Jean-Marc, on the other hand, stands apart from the assembled mourners, reading plaques on the walls and occasionally tapping out a text.

  Alma glances away from Jean-Marc’s blond head to notice the way Chance’s dark hair curls onto his collar. He feels her stare and looks her way. Before she can break her gaze, he passes her the quick schoolboy grin that used to make her toes clench in homeroom, then turns back to Shep with a more serious expression. She turns her attention to Brittany, who sits alone at the end of the back pew. Alma sits, puts an arm around her, and looks for Walt, expecting his Obélix-like frame to fill the big sanctuary doors any minute. No Walt. What could he be thinking, disappearing for this long at a time like this? Is he punishing the family for something—the tense confrontation with Alma, perhaps?

  Then Leslie—or Pastor Kemp, as everyone seems to be calling her these days—comes in from welcoming the small cast of mourners near the front door and bends down to embrace Alma and Brittany together. She takes Brittany’s chin in her hand. “Are you ready for your part, honey?” Brittany sniffles, nods, and fishes a piece of paper out of her pocket to show Leslie, who straightens up to read it. Neither Brittany nor Leslie takes any notice of Alma’s surprise. “This is very nice. It will be perfect,” Leslie affirms and reaches over to hug Brittany again. “Do you want to come sit up front now?” Leslie looks down, inviting Alma with her expression to come forward too, but Alma shakes her head.

  Leslie takes Brittany’s hand and leads her to the front pew before beginning the service. Alma is left alone. The furious rush of words and emotion that hasn’t stopped since she got off the plane comes to a halt for a few minutes. Vicky is dead. The knowledge comes upon her anew, like a revelation, and she’s immersed again in the high school chem lab smell of the morgue, faced with Vicky’s heartbreaking tattoos like they’re on the undersides of her own eyelids. Vicky’s life represents what would have—easily could have—happened to Alma had she stayed in Billings, had she not won the scholarship, had their parents died a few years earlier, had she had a baby too early, had any number of tumblers not fallen into place so that the lock opened and she was free. Vicky’s face, so like her own, lies there in its last, chilly peacefulness, and Alma feels the chill run up her spine as surely as if Vicky had taken a bullet meant for her.